The Incredible Rising Archibalds: 30 years later
by julzbobbibroun
Summary: It's Camelot for Manhattan's adult elite. They have grown up, gotten married, had children. What of the Archibald family? Is it any surprise that they're the Brady Bunch of the Upper East Side?
1. Breakfast at One Vanderbilt's

**The Incredible Rising Archibalds: 30 years later**

_It's Camelot for Manhattan's adult elite. They have grown up, gotten married, had children. What of the Archibald family? Is it any surprise that they're the 'Brady Bunch of the Upper East Side'?_

Pairings: Nate/Rory, canon the rest.

Warning: **Overly dramatised unrealism**. Parallel anvils will repeatedly pummel you on the head. Coincidences and outlandish plot lines. I like happiness and sunshine and rainbows. If you can't handle that level of fluff, well... would you prefer a hooker or ledge?

Notes: FutureFic. Ages were shifted to match. Changed Rory's birth date to 1991, same year as Nate.

My OC's are basically a **guessing game** of who's based on which character from where. And, I'm not gonna lie, one or two may even draw inspiration from other fics (shout outs to Starlight841 and Brooke-L, hope my generous liberating doesn't anger or offend). I've taken material from other TV shows and movies and whatnot, just to let you know in case anything is recognisable. Yes, I do have very little imagination.

This is **not** a continuation of 'Whilst Emily Took Her Nap'. Everything that happened in both series is completely canon, give or take the tiniest smidgens of creative license.

Don't expect frequent updates. Sorry.

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><p><strong>Archibald apartment | New York City, NY<strong>

__"__Andy, your tie."__

Andy had polished off his fifth Pop Tart and three cups of coffee by his father's appearance. The faint yellow shirt of his St. Jude's uniform was wrinkled and half untucked. His top button was ignored, left undone, as per habit. A lifelong habit he only got away with when his mother was out of town.

Andy's striped crimson necktie was unintentionally askew, just like his dad wore it when he was a teenager. It didn't matter that his clothes were professionally pressed. Aside from the eldest, it was rare to find any of the young Archibalds in a pristine state of dress.

Nate Archibald had outgrown his absentminded penchant for throwing on thousands of dollars worth of clothes with nonexistent forethought. He hadn't been like that since youth, prior to his days interning at the _Spectator_. And partially tied ties were hardly suitable attire for an elected official, after all.

__"__Andy. Tie."__

It sounded as if Andy wouldn't get away with his inherent habit today. Nate was unsurprised to see a Google Plate propped up in front of his son on the marble island he sat at. The Archibalds were a tight-knit unit, even with the parents' consuming careers and being all but one kid short of an empty nest.

Nate and his wife had hectic schedules but were determined to avoid absent parenting. They had gone to great lengths to make themselves ever present, and were often annoyingly so. They were very hands-on, very involved. They didn't want their children to be raised by strangers and become strangers to them, themselves.

Whenever the Humphreys (happily attached at the hip, following their exchanged vows) were in Los Angeles while the Waldorf-Basses befell unavailable, there was evermore the option of calling Nate's parents or Rory's dad or the kids' Aunt Gigi if they needed a reliable sitter.

Anne hadn't shifted from her stately townhouse, notwithstanding of espousing a Dutch shipping magnate who owned 1009 Fifth Avenue. Although Howard had retired to a shorefront estate in Maine and a well spoken second wife, he was oft to revisit the modest home he'd kept in Long Island. Decades ago, Christopher had relocated to the Brompton in Yorkville with his six year-old youngest in tow. Gigi graduated from Brearley and went to Sarah Lawrence; had moved back to New York City subsequent to the Wharton School of Business; and now lived with her eleven year-old son at 432 Park Avenue, a five minute car ride from One Vanderbilt Place – colloquially referred to as 'The Spectator Building' and, locally, the 'Spectacle'.

A plethora of relatives and family friends could credulously be counted on but babysitting services were no longer required. Andy was turning seventeen next spring. He was a high school junior but the kind of kid who could, without hesitation, be trusted to act tearfully boring when both parents were elsewhere. He was not the type to run amok around the city or throw ragers while they were gone. Even with the Upper East Side Queen, Grace Collins, as his girlfriend. He wasn't the one who had literally put to pen a meticulous _Risky Business-__Animal House-__Old School_ flow chart as a potential life plan instead of perusing college catalogues. Andy was the reserved and retiring baby of the family.

The Archibald triplex used to bear a strong likeness to an overcrowded frat house – nowhere near the same as Dick's den of debauchery at Yale but a lot like any other testosterone chock-filled fraternity, nonetheless. It hadn't resembled one while school was in session for over a year.

Andy had received a video call from his mother in the midst of his second cup of the day. He was immensely relieved on each occasion she checked in and not just because he was a slight (as loathe as he was to admit it) momma's boy. No one was a fan of Mrs Archibald facing danger on assignment.

There'd been a handful of close shaves that had stemmed from her employment as a fully fledged foreign correspondent, the past ten years. She had left on a CNN plane nearly a fortnight before for Egypt. Extremists were angling for the _Arab Spring, Part Deux: Through the Looking Glass_. There was a dictator who had risen, rallying for a reverse effect of conflicts that had long since ended.

All manner of Archibalds, van der Bilts, Gilmores and Haydens were perpetually worried in wait. They were impatient for Rory's return. Andy missed his mommy and Nate missed his wife. Rory had her dream job and she felt it was important to report on what was really going on but couldn't wait for her homecoming, herself. She missed her adoring husband and she missed her baby boy.

_"__Andy, your tie, please."_

The teenager grumbled, "Fine." His straightened tie was challenged with a cleared throat. Andy did his top button. The conspicuous coughing hadn't ceased. "What now, Mom?"

_"__You think I don't know you haven't properly tucked in your shirt, Andy Archibald?"_

Andy sighed. His mother didn't need to see the lower half to know that. Surely, he wasn't that predictable? Then again, discounting Neil, his brothers and sister were pretty much just that. Kinda predictable. All of the Archibalds were on some level. A lifetime of transparency, reflexive honesty and staunch decency had more often than not equalled predictability. And horrendous lying capabilities. And, therefore, terrible poker faces.

Andy had no idea how his brother won Romeo Beckham's boat in that game last year. He'd believed it was incredibly foolish that Dick had bet the prized ponies of his _Iron Man_ collection. The odds were definitely not in his favour. He had loved those mint condition R8s almost as much as Clarissa Leichter and he wasn't exactly a card shark.

Transparency. Honesty. Decency. Those words should've been stitched onto the family crest when their dad became the unequivocal patriarch of the van der Bilt clan consequential to (Great) Grandfather's passing.

Neither Dick nor Topher bothered with prim or proper appearances unless pestered. Their mom knew that. Save for cotillions to appease their grand and great-grandparents, in addition to the 'extracurricular activities' she'd been swayed into by Aunt Blair at the beginning, Riley may as well have been born with a Y-chromosome instead of the supplementary X for the amount of care she committed to presentation. Andy's meagre personal grooming rituals were the same. Largely lacking.

Andy had stood from his Chris-cross legged stool at the cobalt kitchen counter. He was tucking his wrinkled shirt into his crinkled pants when his dad had greeted him by way of squeezing his shoulder.

Nate strode in with amusement splashed across his handsome face. A face which, although aged by thirty-six years, was identical to his youngest son's. The only facial discrepancies between Nathaniel and Andrew Archibald were the shockingly stunning eyes and the tiny chin imprint the latter had entered the world with.

Each of Rory and Nate's kids had her eyes and her cleft chin, and his hair and his dimpled cheeks. An additional trait their children had that Rory did not was the ability to get a decent tan, while Nate noticeably lacked his family's uptight attitude about time management. That attitude was something he'd never envisioned competing against, even aided by the skilled assortment of extremely competent staff at his beck and call whilst he was in office.

_"__The Governor's up already? Surely it's not 'dawn' on the Upper East Side just yet."_

Nate chuckled. His service as the _Governor_ of the State of New York was going on twelve years. His warm reply was juxtaposed with sardonically rolling eyes that were just as blue but not quite as bright as his wife's and his son's. "Love you too, Chief."

Rory's wide smile was visible on the paper-thin, glossy glass screen. She was appointed as CNN's _Chief_ International Correspondent four years ago. Previous to her position on cable news, she was the editor-in-chief of _The New York Spectator_.

Nate had pressed a hand to his lips, lovingly kissed it and transferred the sweet nothing onto the screen. Rory had immediately imitated her husband's endearment. From her end, she had pressed her own hand to her own Plate. Andy tried not to choke on his sixth Pop Tart.

It was great that his parents had stayed in love after a quarter century of marriage. It sucked that they weren't shy about the sickening state of their relationship. The speeches given at the vowel renewal for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary that summer were scarring, to say the least. Andy had learned to switch off his active listening the second somebody added to the tally of champagne flutes that'd been clinked.

It wasn't funny when Grams had reminded him what a vasectomy was. It was less funny when she'd informed him that his dad had gotten one after his conception and why. He had, then, spent the rest of the weekend at (yet another Great) Grandma's acreage in the Cape attempting to erase that information with the dime bags of hash he'd convinced Milo Sparks to share with him. And, no. He was not alone in asking. The gazebo by the sand and the guest house – its floor to ceiling windows smartly clamped shut and its many layered curtains tightly drawn – had become very popular places.

Andy disgustedly cringed. "Dad's up. The two of you are going to be gross again. That means it's time to leave." He had scarfed the last of his breakfast with haste. He saw that his father's mouth had opened to speak. "You don't need to ask, Dad. I took out John, Paul and Jones for their walk right after my run this morning."

His parents had a monolithic mountain of monumental obligations. Andy was the only one left. After Riley departed, he'd been charged with the responsibility of caring for the dogs that she had adopted from shelters and homeless animal fairs. She had taken a gap year in an impoverished country to help save the world, or whatever. Typical Riley. Now that it had concluded, his sister was devastated upon the realisation that pets weren't permitted in her college dorm.

Andy had seen his dad's uncannily similar face shift. His capacity to read his father as easy as breathing had rivalled Neil's and his mother's because a younger carbon copy of him was his own reflection. He held up a halting hand. "And we left Hunky Dan with Grandpop last Saturday, remember?"

His aunt had a business trip and Haymore was staying with the grandfather they shared – whose occupation, these days, was essentially a 'gentleman of leisure'. His cousin had always wanted to bring home a puppy and their residential high-rise allowed animals but Aunt Gigi was a cat person. The Haydens of Midtown, Manhattan, had two Doll Face Persians: Massandra and Mouton.

"So, uh, yeah. I'll just leave you two to, er, your, um, your fun." Andy had physically recoiled. Enough for his mother to notice.

_"__Hey, you! Child of mine. What's there to complain about now? We're not even on the same continent."_

Nate affectionately ruffled his son's hair. The cheerful grin he had gleaned from seeing and talking to his beautiful wife didn't falter. "Come on, Andy."

_"Yeah, come on, Andy. Would you rather us be _Joni Loves Chachi_ or me buy a panic room and your father make an attempt on _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_? You know how scary he thinks books that big are–"_

"–Hey!"

_"It's a honking huge one, is what it is. Is that what you want? Do you want me to find a glitter vest in your dad's closet while I'm snooping for the gin?"_

Andy looked lost. So did Nate, until a very Lorelai Gilmore-Danes anecdote had popped into the foreground. His mother-in-law had recounted a number of amusing – albeit, inappropriate – tales at his grandfather-in-law's wake. The melancholy that fogged the Gilmore house hadn't sat well with her. She had alternated between humorously and solemnly spieling soliloquies, randomly reminiscing at random intervals throughout the day in an effort to eradicate it.

Andy wasn't there. Alongside Riley, he had been watched by their Grandcappie at his quaint beach house in Montauk. They were too young to attend the morbid memorialising affair. Richard had passed on when Andy was a toddler. It was instantaneous but not entirely unexpected.

The boy in question, now at a ripe sixteen years-old, had crossed his arms. "Mom, you lost me at 'panic room'. What does Jodi Foster have to do with this?"

_"__Mm, never mind. Another story for another day,"_ Rory laughed.

Andy grimaced. He had remembered the point he was trying to articulate. "You know, the fact that you picked a young couple to compare yourselves to should be telling enough of how weird my _half century_-aged parents are, so, you know, I won't have to."

_"It's not like we're reduced to sitting on rockers all day, sipping homemade lemonade and knitting tea cosies while wearing matching velour jogging suits,"_ Rory pouted.

Andy had remained undoubtedly unimpressed.

_"So, what? You'd like us to re-enact _The War of the Roses_?"_

"Son, do you really want us to be like your Aunt Steph and your Uncle Colin?" Nate jokingly inquired.

Like father, like son in the case of the McCraes. The difference was that it's the same woman who Colin had dramatically divorced and remarried, again and again. Colin and Stephanie were a great couple. They loved each other. A lot. But they also fought. Almost as much.

_"You want to be the unfortunate child of an ugly divorce, kid? You were old enough to remember what happened to the Wetherells, Andy. Poor Autumn..._

_"Do you want us to go all Harvey Keitel and Lorraine Bracco on you? Do you want to be Mina, shipped off to Switzerland every time Steph and Colin are consulting their lawyers again? And again, and again? Again, again?"_

"I dunno, Mom. Ugly might be a nice change of pace." Andy had frozen again. He encountered an oddity whilst processing the mental overlay of knowledge he'd banked about his mom and his dad and his (technically, first cousin once removed, as his mother had explained in detail) aunt and his uncle. "When was the last time you guys had a fight?"

_"__Um..."_

""Er..." Nate had nothing substantial to say either. A formerly regular occurrence that was made fun of to this day. Those who had known him his whole life still struggled with the concept that residual substance fumes weren't the sole occupants of his head.

"Have you guys even had an actual fight?"

Andy was administered silence.

"At all?"

It was eight o'clock in the morning. The supertall skyscraper had been soundproofed from the twenty-four/seven ruckus outside when it was erected. They were on the sixty-fifth floor. And, yet, Andy could have sworn that he heard crickets.

"Ever?" he incredulously cried.

Nate created not a peep. As had Rory, whose brow was furrowed at the flawless lens.

She less than helpfully piped up, _"There was that argument I incurred about our never doing what you just asked if we do when your dad and I moved in together. In our twenties. _The same week he proposed. _Wow, that was an eon ago. And, boy, do I feel old. Props to you, kiddo._

_"And then there was, um... well... hmm... Uh, th– no. That would classify as a heated discussion."_

"Well, then." Andy had flailed his arms in resignation. "It's no wonder I'm not on the debate team."

Nate didn't hear his son's redundant comment. Redundant, because the rest of his kids actually were on winning debate teams from schools grade through high. Even Dick, at every college-prep he went to. Except for Collegiate. He wasn't there that long.

For the umpteenth opportunity since she'd jetted for the Arab Republic of Egypt, Nate's anxious displeasure had reared from its barely at rest dormancy. "When I wasn't happy about you going back to the Middle East? Which I'm still not okay with, by the way."

_"__Nate..."_

"Ror, please. It's dangerous. I miss you." He wrapped his arm around Andy for her to see – an interestingly achieved accomplishment because his 'littlest' son had inherited the late Richard Gilmore's vast height. "_We_ miss you."

Sadness had seeped past Rory's lips. _"I miss you more, honey. But a lot of folks out here are missing people too. Their families, their friends. People who deserve to have their stories told."_

"I know. Just, please, don't do anything risky. Stay safe, don't be a hero."

_"__I promise to perfectly emulate that cowardly cartoon dog."_

Nate cracked up. Possibly, with tears in his eyes. And exhausted, exasperated tears at that. Their kids had been obsessed with classic _Cartoon Network_ when they were crayon wielding, playground frequenting younglings. It had driven him and Rory bonkers. It drove them absolutely nuts. He had yearned for his pre-adolescent days of Blair and Audrey. Reliving an endless loop of _Holiday_ and _Tiffany's_ would have been infinitely preferable in comparison.

"I'll hold you to that." He looked serious.

_"__I promise to try copying Courage."_

"Make sure to come home soon, Ror."

Governor and Mrs Archibald had set the precedent to never be apart for longer than seven days. They'd extended the allotment to an even two weeks, three at the very most (and that three, only for the most extreme of extreme circumstance), when her brand new career in broadcast journalism started to skyrocket while he had his work cut out for him in Albany. It was reasonable, considering the unpredictability of their professions and that they talked so much, no matter what, anyway. Thank mankind's bastardisation of the planet, for their continuously swelling ranks of cellular towers – a sentiment Riley would not have been pleased with – and the satellites that were outnumbering the stars.

"I love you."

Andy anticipated the lame ick fest that was a hundred percent probable to ensue. He _had_ existed under the same roof as them for sixteen years. Sixteen very long, very traumatising years. Liam claimed that he'd had it worse in Stars Hollow. Andy didn't believe him. Grams was a fan of embarrassing and uncomfortable PDA, no doubt, but Gramps' fondness for it fell awfully far in the opposing direction.

Dick, who'd lived with the grandparentals in Connecticut for several months at one stage in the tenth grade, had said that it managed to level out. Their 'disproportional dysfunction' had played a part in that, he'd said. Dick had nonchalantly spewed heaps of other stuff too. Andy had no clue what it was about. Just about everyone in his family was a comprehensively complete encyclopaedia disguised as a human being. He was the tallest out of the Archibalds but, too often, he was left feeling small.

_"__I love you too, Nate."_

"I love you more."

Andy envied Neil and Dick and Topher and Riley. They didn't frequently bear witness to their parents' open and unapologetic, stomach churning affection anymore.

Rory softly cooed, _"Impossible."_

Every gush of air that left Andy's lungs had morphed into a disdainful sigh. Dick and Topher were idiots. They had moved to neighbouring states. Neil and Riley were the ones with common sense. He bounced around Europe, difficult to pin down. She was in California. And, preceding that, she was further than the Atlantic afar.

"I disagree," Nate tenderly countered, sappy as could be.

Despite his brother's less than sound decisions regarding school and work locales, Andy wished that he had Topher's brain. Then he would've been able to leave Mom and Dad's blinding, deafening love nest of geeky, dorky obscenity sooner. The preamble to the truly unbearable unpleasantries was approaching its end. The 'suitable for all ages' warm up was well-nigh finished. He shuddered. Their lovey-dovey talk was enough of a hardship to handle for someone who had been made by them– _yuck!_ He didn't want to think about that right now. Or ever. "We're close to gross again. Nice."

_"__You know, Nate, it might actually be a shame that we aren't more like Colin and Stephanie."_ Rory wore a wicked grin.

Nate and Andy's faces had fallen into indistinguishable confusion, matching their indistinguishable and simultaneous replies. "Huh?"

It was adorable, how alike they were.

Undeterred, she continued, _"Because I hear make up sex is supposed to be pretty darn good. All I got was a plain old pile of legal pads, some ball-point pens and a stupid ring. Twenty-five years ago. I feel gypped."_

"Ew, ew, ew!"

"Stupid, huh? Take it up with my great-great-grandfather." Nate's dimples had re-established themselves as he cheekily smiled. "And, yeah. That's the word on the street..."

Andy had to cover his ears. Hurriedly. He whined, "I realise I'm the odd one out and I'm okay with that. I'm nothing like the rest of the sex-crazed heathens you guys spawned. But there are innocent, impressionable ears in the same room as you right now, you know!"

"...Hm, maybe I should throw out all the Toraja and Luwak I've spotted you stockpiling since you did that miniseries on endangered species in Indonesia."

"Oh, HELL no!" His hands had not done a particularly good job. And then they dropped to his sides like lead.

_"Don't you dare, Archibald!"_

"I don't think I can live here with you anymore, Dad. What kind of person threatens the coffee?"

_"I agree, kid, I agree. But, Andy?"_

"Yeah, Mom?"

_"Language,"_ Rory reprimanded.

Andy sheepishly apologised, "Sorry, Mom."

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><p><strong>A Tattler's Diary<strong>

Politics – van der Bilt Family – Andy Archibald

Andy Archibald Bio [Full Biography]

**Full Name:** Andrew Gilmore Hayden Vanderbilt Archibald

**Birthdate:** 2027

**Place of Birth:** NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital in New York City

**Education:** St. Jude's School for Boys

**Occupation:** High school student

**Current Place of Residence:** New York City, New York

**Activities:** Baseball, basketball, biking, camping, deep diving, equestrianism, field polo, fishing, hiking, lacrosse, mountaineering, photography, rowing (sculling), rugby, running, sailing, soccer, spelunking, swimming, track and field, water polo

**Alleged Past Relationships:** Autumn Wetherell, Grace Collins

**Holidays:** Adirondack Park, Cape Cod, East Hampton, Killington, Mount Desert Island, Palm Beach

**Charities:** Boy Scouts of America, Children of the American Revolution, Pelotonia, Polo Ralph Lauren Foundation, Rebuilding Together, The Fortune Society, van der Bilt Foundation

_Last updated: __September, 2043_

**Next profile**

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><p><strong><em>Twickham house | Stars Hollow, CT<em>**

_Rory was reading _Dead Souls_ again. Or, at least, she was trying to. She had reread the same sentence enough to lose count. Her insides churned. She had felt her food on a _backpedalling _samba up her oesophagus. She snapped her book shut and ran for the nearest bathroom. That's right. A Gilmore girl. Running._

_Mrs Archibald had never gotten morning sickness. Except for her second pregnancy, – where she should've taken the inconvenient midnight vomit marathons as an indicator for what was to come – she was prone to midday sickness. It was a shame. Herself, her husband and her four children were in her hometown for the summer. They'd had brunch at the Dragonfly. Now, Sookie's marvellous cooking was exiting her body in the vilely reverse fashion of its __glorious __entrance. __And unpleasantly, in a stream of sludge and clumps._

_Her mind woolly, she returned to her revised edition of Gogol after thoroughly rinsing her mouth and washing her face. She had frustratedly set down the book in under a minute. She gave up her efforts on the political satire for the afternoon. _Her exhausting lines of thought were outracing themselves and had overshot the tracks. She couldn't concentrate on the translated Russian. She was still queasy.__

_Rory hadn't been this unbearably scatterbrained in a year. Not since she had found out that she'd been impregnated with peanut number four._

_She had wondered whether there was anything wrong with her ovaries to make them this overzealous. Was her womb really _that_ great a place to hang out in for nine months? She contemplated the likelihood that Nate's soldiers downstairs had been exposed to radioactive matter. They were suspiciously supercharged. And not in the realm of talented at following orders. Or know the meaning of a strategic retreat._

_This had reached ridiculous proportions. She'd tried every legitimate brand of contraceptive pill on the market and had become extremely stringent about its application. Nate used condoms and occasionally double-bagged it as an extra precaution. This shouldn't, this couldn't have happened._

_She loved her life. She loved her family. She loved her kids. But five children? Five children, all under the age of ten? And one of those children was Dick, the boy who demanded vigilant, unwavering supervision to keep from causing mayhem! Despite his unparalleled laziness, her second son was a born troublemaker. Emily and Richard and Francine had said that he gave them vivid Lorelai and Christopher flashbacks. The notorious twosome, themselves, had advised their daughter and son-in-law not to get him a sports car for his sixteenth birthday. Personally, __Rory had crossed her fingers for no teenage pregnancies in his future._

_Rory grabbed a plush cushion beside her. She sighed. At least nothing big had been switched out. __It was navy and velvet and, odds were, made to order from __Holland & Sherry. It wasn't either of her grandmothers' style of throw pillow. She had sighed again. ____Anne really needed to find a hobby to fulfil herself with that wasn't ______the redecorating competition she had going on with Grandma and Francine.___

_Her grandmothers and Nate's mom didn't dare touch their residence on the topmost floors of the Spectacle. They knew better than to incur the wrath of Blair Waldorf – for it was she who had helped them furnish it when they'd first moved in. However, during the Archibald's latest weekend visit to their bungalow in Mahopac, they'd detected that their furniture had been discarded and replaced. Rory had yet to pick up her mother's sixth sense Emily-alert, but she could've sworn that she'd smelt vestiges of Chanel No. 5 clouded by the fresh, lakeside air._

__She had flopped into a lying position on the sofa. She buried her face in the cushion's soft comfort. She had clamped her eyes closed. _This was the last straw. Rory wasn't unhappy with the prospect of another child, but nor was she happy to convert her vagina into a free-for-all waterslide. She didn't like living as a breeding mule. She didn't like being forced on maternity leave. And she certainly did NOT like going through caffeine withdrawal._

_Rory and Nate had desired one, maybe two in addition to Neil because they were only children. Well, he was. She was raised like one, though. Gigi came into the picture when Rory had embarked on the end of high school _and her father was never that prominent of a presence back then_. Liam hadn't arrived until she was twenty-seven. _Cheaper by the Dozen_ wasn't exactly what either of them had in mind. They were barely halfway there and they'd already had their Sarah Baker in lovable terror that was Dick Archibald. By round two. The exasperated feelings she had felt left her filled to the brim with remorse because of Dan and Serena._

_Dan Humphrey and Serena, at that instant, van der Woodsen were informed that she was unable to conceive. The insight was instigated by__ a bewildering hysterical pregnancy. It was a freak thing. She hadn't known that she'd wanted a baby so much. Serena supposed that perhaps she had enjoyed minding Henry heaps more than she'd initially suspected. Her__ barren and inhospitable reproductive organs were the reason why it had taken them so long to get married. New York's it-girl had a bit of a breakdown._

_A genuine stint in the Pedowitz Institute and plenty of intensive therapy later, everything was eventually sorted out. __The reunited high school sweethearts had refused to let biology block their chance of extending the Humphrey household__. Thereupon finally tying the knot, the newlyweds had extensively travelled the world and became the Brangelina of the Upper East Side._

__Rory wasn't envious of Serena's unfortunate, non-existent child bearing abilities. _But she wasn't especially pleased that she'd have to push a very large thing out of a very tiny hole for a fifth time. Mila Kunis was correct. Men did _not_ have the right to say that 'we' are pregnant._

_It was Nate's turn on the operating table. Rory had devised to threaten withholding sex if he didn't agree. She'd lightly suggested elective surgery after Topher and then seriously broached the subject when they had received the news that __Riley was on the way. Their u__npremeditated false positives were numerous. There was the dark period before their daughter that had involved a vehicular impact and a miscarriage. Of fraternal triplets. Male, each of them. The primordial testicular troops had seemed to pride in proving how virile they were. Suspicion had arisen due to Nate's dream of an all-Archibald touch football team. The questioning had quelled when he adorably hoped for girls so that they could dress as the __von Trapp family and their governess for Halloween._

_Further proliferation was 'highly unlikely' as a result of the accident. The regularly employed __OB/GYN clearly hadn't anticipated the fertile prowess of Mr and Mrs Archibald. __Gilmore women got knocked up far too easily. Case in point: Rory's own conception as well as those of her kids. None of them were planned. There was reasoning behind Nate and Rory's decision to __load their children with multiple middle names._

_She'__d __mentally noted to ensure that their children didn't discover dating until they had hit forty. __Her husband should've been snipped in the fall of twenty-twenty-four. It was time for Nathaniel Archibald to familiarise himself with the idea of a vasectomy._

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><p><span>AN: People out there who'd like a specific picture in their heads for my OCs, check out my 'julzbobbibrounfanfiction' _Tumblr_.

Physical bases are as follows: Neil – Matt Bomer; Dick – Zac Efron/Scott Michael Foster as _Greek_'s Cappie; Topher – Drew Fuller in his _Charmed_ days; Riley – _Privileged_ era-esque Lucy Hale/Jac Jagaciak; Andy – Chace Crawford.


	2. Non-Meet Cutes

**Stanford University | Stanford, CA**

Every one of their encounters so far had been anything but cute meets. He had this unfortunate tendency of getting injured whenever she was within reach.

The first time they had met was a disaster. She could recall the episode but didn't remember him. Howbeit, he had remembered her – the entire event and everyone involved because he'd walked away with his first black eye. Or, he would when he heard her full name. He was seven, in his first three-piece suit and at a wedding for a couple of his dad's friends. Apparently, it was their fourth try down the aisle. It was the reception. He was socked by the six year-old who had been her boyfriend for the (most part of the) eleven years subsequent to that scene.

The second occasion they had crossed paths was as much a catastrophe as it was accidental. There was a soccer ball and a bloody nose. Hers, the former. His, the resulting latter.

The third run in was most certainly not a charm. It did, however, subject him to humiliation. And more physical pain. There was sympathetic cringing from the minority of their World Politics class; laughter from others; and sarcastic slow clapping from the rest. Again, blood had ended up on the outside of where it was supposed to be.

Eli was a fit and spry young fellow. He was excellent on his feet. He just had an atypically nasty habit of tripping inside this girl's perimeter.

Eli fled from reminders of the disgraceful spill the moment the lecture had concluded. The sore nose that'd only had days to heal since its impressive collision with plastic-encased air pinched as if it really was broken this round. His nose had felt like it was and he would've known. He had broken his – miraculously, after everything he'd done – perfectly straight nose twice already. Eli luxuriated in an active, adventurous lifestyle. Jumping off cliffs or out of contraptions that flew was ruled against by his father, but lively live he had done. And Eli had lively lived on every continent.

He constantly sought new experiences. He thrived on the thrill. Eli's dad had said he that was the same at his age. Somehow, he had wound up with more bruises from his encounters with this one girl than the injuries he'd gotten doing dangerous, often stupid stunts over the course of his life. He had nearly knocked out his teeth today. That would have been a shame because he had great teeth.

Eli had tripped over a stray backpack in the aisle after he'd detected _her_ at the front. His eyes were trained on the Amazonian twig that had maimed him with a hell of a kick via soccer ball. She wasn't challenging to notice in this crowd. She unashamedly sported a backwards baseball cap adorned with a white letter 'Y' and a Yale sweatshirt. She animatedly sat at the epicentre of the rowdiest Cardinal cluster (literally – they were the starters on the football team). She was very tall for a girl. Also, exceptionally good-looking. A real-life composition uncommon outside of LA and Comic Con panels that clearly couldn't be overlooked. Boyish attire notwithstanding.

Eli was justifiably distracted. He had face planted down the lecture hall stairs. The lesson had yet to start. The professor was still to arrive. Students were coming and going. The fuss had created a display that was recorded with Plates, Palms and Glasses. He had taken several people along with him. Eli was now doing his best to forget that the mishap had ever happened.

Fleet footsteps approached from behind. An effeminate hand had gently grabbed Eli's shoulder. Familiar eyes shone with familiar concern. Swapping today's sweatshirt and cut-offs for a t-shirt and running shorts, her appearance was invariable from the previous instance they had met. _Stop_, dammit. His attention was raptly captured by her legs again.

"Hey!"

"Hi," Eli grimaced.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked evenly. She wasn't off-put by his indisputable show of discomfort. "I just had to ensure you didn't suffer serious injury. That trip was more than a mere Marx Brothers moment."

He shrugged. "Nothing about a Marx Brothers moment is merely mere."

Her face lit up. She had a beautiful smile. A familiar, beautiful smile. Eli's processes glitched. That was nonsense. He was puzzled. No smiling had coincided with the soccer ball incident. Before or during or after. There were just worried frowns and darty eyes. Actually, Eli mused, a lot about this girl was familiar. Unexplainably, her toothpaste commercial pearls had sent images of tropical beaches as well as varsity letters through his brain.

She nodded, her golden brown ponytail bouncing and bobbing. "I agree. They are quite the amusing team. You know the Marx Brothers." She was impressed.

"'Where's my Stradivarius?'"

"I approve of your taste."

She smiled again and Eli couldn't help smiling back. She had tilted her head. She squinted. Now, he was thinking about crystals and lace. He was beyond confused.

She was inspecting him; considering something to do with him. "Oh, my. Wow."

"Wow?" Eli wasn't confident with how to respond. The smile had remained plastered to her face, so the 'wow' couldn't have been bad. He shifted with uncertainty. Which was ridiculous. He wasn't an uncertain guy.

Eli was the opposite of uncertain, especially whilst conversing with the opposite sex. He had difficulty acknowledging what was wrong with him. The strange sensation in his stomach had to be because he'd made a fool of himself in front of her, amongst scores of others. Eli was unsure if he fancied putting himself in a position of liking this girl in a way that was nowhere near the planet Friendzone.

Normally, he would have gone for a girl this attractive and intriguing without hesitation. But he had refrained. This one unnerved him.

She was pretty and smart and fascinating. A unique brand of pretty and smart and fascinating that Eli didn't believe he had encountered before. It had been apparent when they first talked that she was really, very, rather, quite... special.

Eli ignored that she fit the type he customarily chased to a tee. Discerning from what he had eyeballed so far, she was a tomboy. That was an anomaly but not a relative matter. It changed nothing for him. It had probably helped him on a subconscious level, even.

It was difficult to date somebody who'd shown a resemblance to the conga line of women that had played at the role of his pseudo mommy over the months, occasionally years, they stuck. His father was a serial monogamist who liked his ladies perfectly polished and sophisticatedly hot, the same as his mother. As far as Eli knew, his dad didn't _do_ girl next door – pun definitely intended.

Logan Huntzberger had practically done every woman on the Western Seaboard who could pull off layering her Eleanor Waldorf with her J by Waldorf (how and why Eli knew there was a difference were testaments to how his dad may have fortuitously effed him up). Except brunettes, weirdly. Regardless of the natural curiosity he had inherited from the journalistic gene pool, Eli wasn't sufficiently comfortable with his dad's dynamic dating history to seek answers. He actually avoided them. It was no secret the man had a past that wasn't so much a past, but more a moderately less promiscuous present. Other than that oddly specific feature, Mr Huntzberger was an equal opportunist.

Openings to observe, closely study the unbeatable combination of his father's charisma and finely honed practice were plentifully provided. There _was_ that succession of women that'd succumbed to the old Huntzberger charm which he had survived, starting from the age of four.

Eli was well versed in effective ways of wooing. He was talented at it too. He had discovered how from the master at an impressively, possibly worrying age. Specifically, he had learnt from the _Master and Commander_ – a proudly proclaimed title his dad gave himself with the hint of a wistful grin.

Eli had resisted the urge to put on a wistful grin of his own. He longed for when his feelings were fuelled by logic. He may have had a preference for the whole wholesome appeal – sweet and unassuming Joey Potters who essentially wore 'commitment' stamped across their sincere foreheads – but he'd never been a boyfriend. He had never been in love. Nor was he positive that he wanted to.

His mother's abrupt abandonment hadn't helped in the trust and stability department. Eli dropped relationships like sizzling rocks the second they had arrived at that awkward and undefined stage, several large leaps before his dad was known to do the same. He had slammed the eject button when marriage was laid on the table. Eli ran for his countlessly tried and tested escape route when contentment crept.

Eli knew his patterns and he didn't want to hurt her. It sounded arrogant but it was true: females couldn't help falling for Elias Branch Huntzberger. Perhaps it was wisest for him to stay away.

He had an eye for sizing people up. The recurring pain inflictor was uncommonly kind, in spite of the injuries to his California tanned face. She had amusingly nagged and dragged him to the campus infirmary after the inadvertent abrasion. She had, then, compelled him into a stationary stance long enough to get checked on. That was an extraordinary achievement. There was his general disdain for sitting still and strong dislike of hospitals to contend with. Eli's stubborn personality points were unmatched, remarkably inadequately, opposing her persuasive skills.

They'd had a lengthy one-sided conversation directly following the soccer ball nosebleed. Ironically, although she had proven herself an otherworldly wordsmith with an endless supply of witty words to say, he hadn't learned her name. Then again, she talked so much and so fast that he may have missed it.

Eli had no idea how to respond to her next longwinded, jargon-chocked ramble.

"I promise I'm not hitting on you– or, you know what? Maybe I am. I think. I dunno. Does this count as flirting? I've never done it before. Well, I don't think I've ever actively done it before. I've kinda never needed to. Okay, now I feel bad. And sad. I feel sad and bad. But, hey, you know what? We are on a break. Actually, no. Not a break. No Green-Gellar disputes for us. We broke up for real this time. There was Michael after Kay told him about the abortion kind of yelling when there weren't _Drive_ levels of intense silence and there is no way in the name of Taylor Swift that we are ever getting back together..."

Eli internally winced. He hadn't reflected on his childhood's Swift Saga in ages. Eternally searching for her elusive soul mate and held back by a desire to only marry once, Taylor's single status was suitably intact to trek the Logan Huntzberger Expedition. There was, of course, the patented premeditated split. The end came with ten carat coffin nails that were sharpened to penetrate arteries. They had pummelled his dad in the form of a Grammy-raking album titled 'Princess Cut'. He was nine when it was released and he was supremely embarrassed.

"...Ever," she huffed.

Eli had noticed that she'd thoughtlessly fingered the sapphire solitaire on her right hand while saying this. It looked real. It looked expensive. She didn't seem like the sort of girl who would own such a jewel, let alone wear it. Nevertheless, it had suited her.

He presumed that it was from whatever ex she had rambled about breaking up with 'for real this time'. That indicated potential trouble, should he ignore his better judgement and chase the girl. The person who'd given it to her was either as loaded as his dad or had _seriously_ loved her. Neither scenario was comforting. She was still wearing it. The ring was too new and the design too modern for it to be a family heirloom. The sparkling stone screamed baggage. Eli really should have started sprinting for the Twin Peaks by now.

"Not you and me," she hastily established. "Me and a you who is not you, right in front of me, right now. The aforementioned 'you' of which I spoke is currently in New Haven, where I'd always imagined I'd be as of the right that is right now. But I'm not. 'Life' happened, as Summer Finn would say," she said, faster than Eli had previously understood was humanly possible.

Her speech had lost traction when she saw Eli's bewildered expression. She apologetically pursed her cherubic lips. "Never mind. It's a story you don't need to know. I am going to pretend I have access to the Delorean. Be kind, rewind. You can pretend you weren't another poor, unfortunate soul who bore witness to my Willow-worthy word vomit and I can move on to state the obvious: you have, well, _had_ a really nice smile a second ago – before you unintentionally wandered onto the receiving end of my latest verbal diatribe."

Eli's confounded frown upturned. He was going to walk away from this girl, why? Oh, right, the back of his mind had reminded him. It persisted to berate him. He'd feel awful later, down the road of their inevitable parting. He was always the one to end it and the girl had always ended up hurt. His gut had vociferated to abstain from hurting this girl.

Eli was unable to completely rationalise why he cared more. Slices of guilt lingered due to his ditching. And, yet, nothing had generated reconsideration. Nobody had driven him to question his routine until then. He couldn't handle relationships when they had become real. It was too much. He couldn't take the drama – not even the concept of its inevitability if the onset was somewhat visible on his horizon. More so, Eli couldn't bear the idea of himself as the party that got left behind. His uncertainty about this girl immeasurably grew in size and strength.

"Just... wow," she continued honestly.

Her megawatt smile had blinded and scorched in full force. Her dimples had stricken him stupid. Screw it, resonated his fried synapses' remains. Who was Eli Huntzberger to turn down an open invitation that could potentially tick each and every one of his boxes?

Eli smirked. This, he was capable of working with. Their interpersonal interactions had finally found charted land. "'Wow', huh? I think I can live with that."

She laughed. She had a lovely laugh, Eli determined.

He charmingly grinned. "Your smile's pretty 'wow' too, just FYI."

"So I've been told," she said simply.

"You're modest," he stated, straight-faced.

"I have this thing about honesty."

"So, you're modest and honest," Eli good-humouredly teased.

"Sam I am."

"What?"

She was the one smirking now. "I thought we were rhyming, Theodor Geisel."

"You're funny."

"I try."

"Your tongue, it's quick."

"I was Clara Bow in my last life. I'm making up for the disproportionate percentage of talkies in my former career. Also, it's genetic."

"I like it."

"Only the best know how to appreciate it."

It was arduous for Eli to get a word in edgewise. The rapid snap her oral judo boasted came close to only his father. And Portia and his aunt, when the Abernathys visited. And his grandfather, when he and his dad were in Hartford for the odd holiday.

"I don't think we broached introductions the other day."

"No. We did not." The concern on her face had returned. "But we were understandably preoccupied. With my soccer ball and your poor nose and all that blood. It was Cristiano Ronaldo in twenty-thirteen all over again. I feel like I should give you my jersey. I doubt I can count on you taking it, though. It's Bulldog blue. 'Yale' is printed on it. And it's currently on the other side of campus in my dorm being held hostage by roommate– which extremely likely doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you right now.

"Uh, well, you see," she prepared to expound, "My roommate, she's this diehard Crimson fanatic who got waitlisted but still has a boatload of love for the place. She's a generations-long legacy, just like I am on the better, bluer, pro-con list winning side of the Ivy covered fence. Basically, she kinda hates me on principle." It took a while to get back from her tangent. How she had not forgotten what she'd initially brought up was astounding.

"I swear, I'm rooming with the lovechild of my Aunt Paris and Everett Calloway! Is it just me, or is everyone Harvard bound totally insane? I love him, I really do, but one of my brothers went there and he's a neurotic little freak." She had chuckled and deeply sighed. "But, hey, at least the jersey doesn't support the Bruins, right?"

"That's what counts," he said humorously. "And no need." He held out his hand. "I'm Eli."

She had stepped closer to him and shook the proffered appendage. "Riley." She dropped it. "And your forehead is bleeding."

"Huh, what? Really?" That was news to Eli. He hadn't noticed.

"You sure you're okay? You don't need me to drag you by your ear again? Harangue you into taking another trip to the good doctor?"

"Nah."

"You don't need some aspirin? A band-aid? A tourniquet? Anything?"

"I'm good," he assured her.

Riley was evidently relieved. "Good. That's good."

"So..."

"So..."

They had come to their first conversational standstill. Eli didn't think that they would ever get there. He'd shoved his hands in his pockets and stood slightly hunched over. Not that he had to. He was used to being a mile taller than most girls. Another category, another chance for her to prove how different she was. Eli had three inches on six feet. She had to teeter adjacent to six foot, herself. Riley played with the ends of her sleeves. She was staring at the ground.

"So... Yale..." He gestured to the letters emblazoned across her chest. "You know you're on the wrong side of the country, right?"

She laughed. "Eleventh hour switcheroo."

"I remember you mentioning something about New Haven."

"I've actually wanted to go to Yale ever since I was a kid, but I felt like a change. I guess I tend to stretch boundaries. Step over, heck, break them on occasion. I've come to learn that I'm at my best when I'm pushing myself. I had to get out of my comfort zone, so here I am," she explained. "I can't Be All That I Can Be in Connecticut."

"You from the area?"

"Not really. I'm from New York, actually. But heaps of friends and relatives of mine are littered throughout. And, well, a ton of people I know go to Yale. I have a brother who does. Who _still_ does. One who will stay there forever, if he gets his way. One that is overprotective," she sighed. "Can't really enjoy a well-rounded college experience with Big Brother watching my every move."

Riley had rolled her massive blue eyes. Eli was reintroduced to their vivid clarity when he noted that she had stopped giving him her – peculiarly familiar – thousand-yard stare. They were stunning. They were the purest, clearest, brightest blue eyes that Eli had ever seen in reality. They had dulled her ring to an opaque, unpolished hunk of weathered rock in comparison.

"Since my boyfriend became my ex, you can bet that he's issued a fatwa with my full name, a current picture and a detailed description of me on it longer than _In Search of Lost Time_," she finished.

He chuckled. "Your brother can really enforce something like that?"

"If anyone can enforce a campus, possibly city, even state-wide moratorium on me, it'd be any one of my older brothers. In this case, Dick."

"_Dick_, huh?" he continued to chuckle.

"I know, I know. Dirty. Ha-ha." She had started to join in. "Ironic, too. His 'Little Richard' works out often, has a vigorously Balboa exercise regimen. That's probably why he's so super protective. He's a platinum member of _that_ particular societal fraction. He knows how they think because he's one of them. He's a regular Hef. His antics since junior high would appal Dorian Gray. He'd definitely be classified as one of _those_ guys. Dick has to have, like, a hundred easy dates on speed-dial."

"How about a second bathrobe in his closet for overnight guests?" he joked. Eli knew that his dad did when he was in between girlfriends. His father was acquainted with the reciprocators of the fraction that Riley had mentioned.

"Enough to rival Imelda Marcos's shoes," she giggled.

"Dick is that popular with the ladies?"

Riley's face froze. "Too many sex puns in that sentence. Can't decide. Pick. Can't. Overload."

Eventually doubled over, they howled in unison.

* * *

><p><strong>A Tattler's Diary<strong>

Politics – van der Bilt Family – Riley Archibald

Riley Archibald Bio [Full Biography]

**Full Name:** Lorelai Emilane Anne Archibald

**Birthdate:** 2025

**Place of Birth:** NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital in New York City

**Education:** Constance Billard School for Girls, Stanford University

**Occupation:** Editor-at-large for _Gray Ink_, _Q_, _The New York Spectator_, _The Periodical Spectacle_ and _The Waldorf Catalogue_, full-time undergraduate student, model, socialite

**Current Place of Residence:** Stanford, California

**Activities:** A cappella, biking, camping, deep diving, equestrianism, field hockey, hiking, lacrosse, mountaineering, running, sailing, soccer, softball, spelunking, track and field, violin, writing

**Alleged Past Relationships:** Archer Delatour, Cooper Pearce, Devon McDougall, Doug Carl

**Holidays:** Adirondack Park, Cape Cod, East Hampton, Killington, Mount Desert Island, Palm Beach

**Charities:** American Red Cross, AmeriCares, amfCR, Amnesty International, Animal Medical Center, ASPCA, Boys & Girls Clubs of America, CARE USA, ChildFund International, Children of the American Revolution, Chime for Change, Conservation International, Daughters of the American Revolution, FAIR Girls, FAO, FEED Projects, Feeding America, FINCA International, Fortune Society, Free the Children, Friends Committee of New Yorkers for Children, Girl Scouts of the USA, Girls Inc., Global Poverty Project, Globcal, Good 360, Habitat for Humanity, Happy Hearts Fund, Lions Clubs International, mothers2mothers, Nature Conservancy, NRDC, One Young World, Operation Smile, Peace Corps, Pelotonia, PETA, Polo Ralph Lauren Foundation, Rebuilding Together, Riverkeeper, Rotary International, Save the Children, Toys for Tots, UN Women, UNDP, UNEP, UNHCR, UNIFEM, United States Fund for UNICEF, United Way of America, USO, van der Bilt Foundation, Wildlife Conservation Society, World Nature Organization

_Last updated: September, 2043_

**Next profile**

* * *

><p><strong><em>The Breakers | Newport, RI<em>**

_That time in his life had commenced. Logan had reached the age where it was wisest to invest in that second suit, as the saying went – something he'd never contemplated until losing most of his trust fund and then striking out on his own in Silicon Valley. __Friends were becoming serious about their boyfriends and girlfriends. It was Colin and Stephanie who were next._

_Logan hadn't denied that he was nervous about this. He was on the Eastern Seaboard for the first time since moving west. His parents – who had existed out of sight, out of mind following the __unforgettable __Huntzberger Group resignation __– were definitely going to be there. It was a high society event with the crème de la crème of the first world's elite. Dignitaries from across the globe were in attendance. T__he company of the Huntzbergers was u_ndoubtedly _mandatory._

_Colin was a McCrae with a mother that couldn't have cared less and had nearly as many self-involved, trophy wife step-moms as Glynn Wolfe did _divorcees_. __His father, although disturbingly delighted that he was tying the knot, had been too busy to go into a frenzy over his only son's life. Stephanie, on the other hand, was a van der Bilt._

_The van der Bilt name went hand in hand with the whole van der Bilt family; an endless, ensnaring, interweaving vine of meddling relatives. Being a van der Bilt came with _an Everest of _expectations. Especially where weddings were involved. And, after Stephanie's cousin had his under the radar, the elders were employing extra effort to compensate. That cousin was Nate Archibald, the reason __his first girlfriend's surname was no longer 'Gilmore'. __Stephanie had mentioned that, despite her professional consistency in public print, she'd altered her legal documents A__mal Alamuddin-style._

_Logan was Colin's best man. He had been cordial toward Archibald at the bachelor party. It was onerous but he was able to endure the evening without his head exploding. Even though they were older when those clued in had traitorously elected to forever hold their peace__; even though they were friends for years beforehand, Logan deemed he had a right to feel insulted that Rory got engaged after a year of dating and was then married within mere months._

_Nate Archibald, it appeared, knew of the past he had shared with his wife. Then again, he had no doubt that every upper crust crumb in the Northeast and beyond did as well. Logan wondered how his mother had fared with the talk that'd predictably surrounded the situation. His mom must have doubled her chances of developing lung cancer. __The __winsome__ daughter of the Gilmore scandal girl had turned down a proposal from the notorious Huntzberger heir. That was not exactly news which kept quiet when said Huntzberger had pulled out a ring and _vocalised _a heartfelt proclamation in a room filled with people who loved to gossip._

_It was clear that Archibald had put his best foot forward in front of Logan. __It was hard to believe anyone – who was not Rory – was normally that nice._

_Logan had recalled his stint at St. Jude's in the twelfth grade. Those three months were out of control. He had befriended Carter Baizen. Enough said. He remembered a thirteen year-old soon-to-be Waspoid that had loyally trailed after an overdramatic, doe-eyed Nazi with chestnut curls like a Golden Retriever. No matter what. And Logan saw the kid withstand a whole crap bag of bat shit insane from that chick – _girls like that were a reason why he hadn't planned to tie himself down until it was expected; and only when it was enforced. He was the one who had suggested that Carter should roll a joint for the boy to deal with the stress.__

_Actually, it wasn't so hard to believe. Nate Archibald was nothing but respectful. He hadn't acted awkward or standoffish. For that, Logan was grateful and just the tiniest bit annoyed. Of course he had to be a total saint. Of course he had to be a perfectly stand-up guy. He was the man that Rory Gilmore had agreed to spend the rest of her life with._

_The ceremony was when the blood from Logan's face had drained, quickly and chillingly. He was swamped with work and hadn't a spare moment to fly over for the engagement celebration in Manhattan. This was the first time he had seen _her_ in six years. It had been six years since she'd turned him down._

__He hadn't waited for her. He had moved on. He'd had a myriad of stringless flings and long(ish)-term girlfriends, and everything in between. Logan was not, however, going to lie to himself. _He had secretly pictured Rory pining over him, unable to bear the fact that she'd turned him down and let him walk away. He had envisioned her regretful that she hadn't chased after him. He was usually the one who had to run after her _– accurately speaking_, _back to_ after acting incredibly idiotic. Surely, it was her turn to do the same. In her mind, obviously not._

_Logan stood at the front, directly next to Colin. _A slightly sulky Finn was behind him as a groomsman. He had won the coin toss. Finn did not.__

_Logan had scrutinised the seated crowd. It was a distorted reflection of Emily and Richard's vowel renewal, flipped a hundred and eighty degrees. Their roles had reversed. He was dressed like a penguin at the front, at the side of the groom. She sat in amongst the guests and had absentmindedly smiled as a handsome man in matching Armani leant towards her. He had whispered into her ear. __Rory had comfortably leaned into her husband. His arm was wrapped around her. Her head had rested on his shoulder. Their fingers were intertwined, their hands mindlessly playing with one another's._

_Mr and Mrs Archibald painted a nice picture. A perfect picture. Him, in a fine, azure tux. Her, in an elegant, periwinkle dress. Both, with easy smiles and pretty blue eyes. They were a couple truly and deeply in love. L__ogan was happy for Rory but the sight of them had broken his heart._

_A tall, blonde bombshell _–_ widely known for the highly publicised exploits in her teens and early twenties _–_ had sidled into view with a dark-haired man who austerely required a haircut. __She carried a baby boy with brown hair that caught the light in a confusing way, _as if it couldn't decide whether or not to settle on blonde_. _If Logan wasn't calculating his numerous hook ups with Serena van der Woodsen, he'd have noticed that the infant's hair was the exact same shade of not-quite-blonde brown as Nate Archibald.__

_When Serena handed the baby to the Archibalds, it was unmistakable whose its parents were. Logan had forgotten how to breathe for several seconds. Maybe minutes. He wasn't sure. __It could have been an hour, if not for today's schedule. His lungs had screamed for some kind of cooperation with his head. His mind was otherwise occupied, attempting to _reorganise_ the uncomprehending cacophony that had overshadowed all else. _The facts that'd slapped him in the face on his best friend's happiest day had further cracked the emptying ____husk in his chest. ____He didn't know that she'd had a child.__

_Logan knew about the secret, small town wedding on the grounds of a newly reopened boutique inn. Not the Dragonfly? Interesting. He had read that it was in Connecticut. A Nowheresville near Litchfield named Stars Hollow. At that scrap of information, he wasn't surprised._

_He had found out about their clandestine nuptials when the rest of America did. It was shortly after New York City's municipal race. According to Mayor Archibald's official statement, he'd chosen to avoid irrelevant publicity on __his campaign. He had wished to win or lose because of his platform, not because he was the talk of the town. Archibald was a guy with integrity. At his core, he was practically the same person as Rory. Logan hated that it was difficult to hate him._

_Even if it had taken ages for the white-veiled truth to come out, the Gilmore-Archibald engagement was considered the right coast's worst kept secret. Contrary to her sharp and thoughtful r__eputation, there were droves of woman who had begun to assume otherwise of the forgone Miss Gilmore__. The van der Bilt ring wasn't spotted on Anne Archibald for months and s_he hadn't suspected a thing. ___Well, Logan fondly reminisced, she had always been endearingly love dense._

_The revered family diamond had fashioned itself a new home on Rory's smooth, milky hand. It was huge. It was extravagant. It would have looked absurd on anybody with without the 'right' look – refined features and an innate presence that proved their ancestry was as noble as the stone. ___Lorelai Leigh Archibald wore it well.__

* * *

><p><span>AN: Physical bases are as follows: Riley – _Privileged_ era-esque Lucy Hale/Jac Jagaciak; Eli – Justin Hartley during _Smallville_ season six.

Let me repeat, **overly dramatised unrealism**. Just a warning for Riley's road up ahead. Possibly Neil's too. Meh. Let's face it. Most likely, everyone's.


	3. Dr Howser, MD

**Beacon Hill unit | Boston, MA**

'Doogie' was a zombie by the weekend. His co-workers still used the nickname that had stuck to him since he was pre-med at college. It had taken a while for them to respect him. Their behaviour was accustomed to. He was done with St. Jude's by fifteen, graduated from Harvard at seventeen and finished medical school before he'd reached the legal drinking age. Two fifths of the Archibald kids had proven themselves nothing if not precocious, scholastically speaking. So far. Riley had started at Stanford. She was as naturally brilliant as Dick – sans the chronically lazy attitude – and as driven as himself but had overextended interests like Neil.

Topher wasn't just a precocious overachiever. He was also a nice guy. Being a nice guy had not turned out to have a heap of perks in his profession. He had covered shifts that weren't his for near a fortnight. Those were carried out in addition to his own. He had secretly met up with Dr Cantilever in on-call rooms. It had been a year but she was an attending and he was a resident.

He hadn't had a full eight hours in over a week. He was ready to drop. On any surface. From any height. He was absolutely wiped. Topher had no idea how he was managing to function. Oh, right, he had remembered. Caffeinated beverages. He was so dead beat that he'd almost forgotten. _Blasphemy!_

Topher was grateful that he'd inherited what generations of fortunate breeding and circumstance had combined to create: the irresistible Archibald charm. Topher was appreciative that he wasn't remotely unpleasant to look at. His attractive features, boyish innocence and unassuming charisma had made sweet talking the nurses tons easier. He was not the chattiest of fellows. Topher was quieter than Andy – dissimilarly, the general silence wasn't out of shyness – unless approached. He had made sure to dole out sincere pleasantries with them on a daily basis because it was they who had the good coffee.

The black brew found in nurses' lounges was superior to anything else that could possibly be found in a hospital. It was a simple fact of life. A piece of information that he had come to learn from comparing and contrasting the appalling amenities which were available to the public in New York, Connecticut and Massachusetts. He had been forced to find better for the sake of his sanity.

Topher had registered many a hospital hour, pre-medical degree. The Archibalds did everything en famille. Grandpa had heart problems from his first memory of him. He was three when Riley was born. There were more than flickers when he tried to recall Andy's birth. Neil simply didn't _do_ nature whereas Dick was the genius that had fractured his wrist when he'd climbed the cherry tree in the backyard, and then broken it after doing the exact same thing the next summer they were in Stars Hollow. He, himself, had refused to acknowledge his bad luck at sports. Topher was a champion eater but an atrocious athlete, no matter how much he had tried to convince himself otherwise.

He was starving and faced with quite the dilemma. He was beyond bone tired. His eyelids were stiffer than the air that Aunt Paris had sucked from her surroundings whenever in proximity of their profession's 'dropouts and drifters' on the non-surgical floors. They had treated him as awfully as she was towards unbroken in interns. Against Topher's will, they had drooped down and refused to open again without considerable effort. They'd felt as if they had been coated with a light layer of quick-set concrete.

What had won out in the end? Food, of course. An empty stomach was the Archibald trump card. It was only beaten by the ace of aces. Coffee. Ambrosia. The elixir of the gods.

Topher was greeted by the scent of freshly baked goods from the moment he had entered his decent two-bedroom at One Garden Street. It wasn't his parents' Spectacle apartment or Neil's Parisian townhouse. It did have what he needed. There was running water and electricity. He had a decent view, despite there being no Mount Olympian skyline of Manhattan. The apartment was within walking distance of the hospital. Even for him, the boy who was known to have taken town cars when his destination was further than the number of blocks he could count on his hand.

Forced to raise an alien masquerading as her son that ran track and was a quarterback, Lorelai Gilmore-Danes had chosen to focus on her third grandson's athletic achievements. Why had she done such an unusual thing when her own child was making his mark on Chilton's athletic awards? Because there were none on Topher Archibald's academia-strewn shelves.

The (formerly, in a legal sense) Gilmore girls were invariably baffled with their offspring's sporting prowess. That it'd been them who had popped out these odd beings which physically exerted themselves by choice was a perpetual head scratcher.

Rory's children had competitively sailed for the New York Yacht Club. Neil was the first to raise his hand whenever grass wasn't included in the equation – because grass equalled dirt, and dirt had equalled the absence of Neil Archibald. Dick was his father's son, cavorting in a lifelong love affair with soccer and lacrosse, and was an especially talented basketball player. Riley, herself, was simply a soccer nut. Andy had tried practically every sport under the sun.

And then there was Topher.

He was akin to his mother in most respects. He, too, had considered what he'd taken as his physical education requirement in high school: a good walk spoiled. Not that he had expressed the statement aloud. Topher was the 'normal' kid, in Mom and Grams' opinion. His inadequacies had made them proud. He'd wanted a sliver of competency because he didn't like the exclusion from family activities.

Topher was currently living with one of those extraterrestrial creatures that had seemed to actually enjoy exercise. Like Neil had done in the morning before school at home, she ran kilometres on city sidewalks and park pathways before whipping up funky slime that was supposed to be healthy. She was a health conscious freak of nature. He had slowly gotten used to her incomprehensible lifestyle habits. It had been some time since he'd lived with one of them.

Hailey Lee baking had sparked blinding flares and waved billboard-sized flags of crimson. His roommate was a stress baker. She used to be a stress eater. That'd continued up until her scrub pants had split at work. She was an intern whose resident had once been assigned to work on a clinical trial with Dr Gellar-McMaster. That hadn't been a particularly peaceful period for her. Hailey was unable to fit into her thrift store scored Levi's for ages.

It was probably inappropriate that he had asked Hailey to move in with him. Topher was her boss. On the upside, he wasn't technically _her_ boss. She wasn't on his service. He had to, at least, ask. And then bother her until she had caved in. She had lived out of her tiny, beat-up Nissan until he'd intervened.

Their shared living situation had turned out exceptionally well. She could cook. She could bake. And he... Topher's culinary skills had rivalled his inability to run a four-minute mile.

He had sustained himself with colourful cardboard-boxed breakfast foods throughout his existence in Cambridge. Because of his job, he hadn't had the opportunity to stock up on the sugar-laced essentials. As an intern, he had nearly starved. He'd avoided the slop in the cafeterias as a rule and had existed on the junk from vending machines. He may have died from malnutrition if not for his stupefying genes. He was unable to make the majority of Friday night dinners with the family. He'd been inches away from hiring a valet to ensure that he hadn't ended up a skeletal swashbuckler come the light of moon, cursed for stealing Aztec gold.

Topher reckoned that he had gotten the better end of the bargain with Hailey's move in. She was a neat freak in a manner which had reminded him of his mom, his brothers and his sister. She'd preferred the space that she occupied to be spotless and organised. The twelve or so months that Topher lived alone, it'd looked like the Brooks Brothers flagship had teamed up with Szechuan Gourmet to send shipments of explosive kegs to his apartment. His person was not messy. He hadn't resembled an unkempt mad scientist. On the other hand, his belongings and lodgings would've caused the Environmental Protection Agency to come knocking.

Topher never knew whether Hailey had believed him or not. He was genuinely pleased with their arrangement. She cooked and cleaned. Not because she had wanted to anger feminists. Not because he had asked her to. Because, it's how she was hardwired. She did the housekeeping kind of tasks that he didn't remember often enough to be able to forget. She had schlepped his crap back and forth from the cleaners. He had informed her that she'd not need to pay rent if she kept this up.

Money had never been an issue. Unlike Neil and Dick, he wasn't blowing his trust fund on historical European real estate or piles of decades old automobiles. There were no occasions that he had gone to their parents or grandparents for financial assistance. The rent issue hadn't been a blip on Topher's radar. It had taken a careful imitation of his eldest brother's skilled cajoling to convince Hailey. She hadn't wanted a handout. She was proud, touchy and initially insulted with his suggestion.

Topher had dragged his fatigued body in the direction of the heavenly smell. Hailey was an excellent chef. If surgery didn't work out, Sookie could have hired her as a protégée on the spot.

Trays upon trays of chocolate-chip cookies, chocolate-chip muffins and chocolate-chip scones had littered the flour-strewn, stainless-steel countertops. The chocolatey baked goods were accompanied by a young woman in a powder-dotted apron. There were another couple of others that Topher had recognised. He was happy to see them until he'd realised something that made him want to collapse. Right there, right then. Right here, right now. That, or contribute to shrinking landmasses with an overflow of tears. There may have been both if he wasn't so terribly overtaxed. TGIF was not a registrable acronym today.

"Yay. You're here. Here to join the average-looking mortal and the Super Bowl of genetic lotteries in our home. Super Bowl! Get it?" Hailey stiffly smiled. "Thank all the luck there's ever been in the entire universe that they found each other. There has to be a depressingly small percentage of the population with self-esteem that could handle being in a relationship with either of them. Imagine what might happen if they procreate. That poor thing could die alone."

Topher had politely tried to find an approach to slide into her spiel. Prevent further damage. Although their guests were distracted by Hailey's cookies before, their attention to her passive-aggressive and philippic motion was no longer held up. Her rambling had his family's calibre of potential. She was intimidated by the pair of them. Hailey did not greet intimidation with a Stars Hollow welcome wagon.

Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome had seamlessly slipped into a Patriots uniform straight after ultimately hanging his Bulldog blue. American football fans knew him as his generation's Tom Brady – on _and_ off the field. _ESPN The Magazine_'s Body Issue had recently featured him. He had affably declined accepting an onslaught of 'Sexiest' and 'Hottest' awards with flushed cheeks. Miss Hair, Stare and Legs was a fashion model. She had been in the business virtually as long as his Riley. She was a Victoria's Secret Angel. She had opened the VS Fashion and Swim Shows subsequent to signing onto the select title. The widely acknowledged Brady-Bündchen contrast had solid merit.

Hailey continued, "...I mean, what is up with your family, Archibald? It's freaky. It's unnatural. Were all of you modified in a lab at some point? Is that a rich people thing?"

Liam Gilmore-Danes and Marina Litvinchuk had fallen silent. They were gawking and gobsmacked. There was no negativity from their side. They were merely surprised with the passionate level of spazz that Topher's roommate had spoken in. She could certainly claim an interesting point of view.

* * *

><p><strong>A Tattler's Diary<strong>

Politics – van der Bilt Family – Topher Archibald

Topher Archibald Bio [Full Biography]

**Full Name:** Christopher Howard Archibald

**Birthdate:** 2022

**Place of Birth:** NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital in New York City

**Education:** St. Jude's School for Boys, Harvard University, Harvard Medical School

**Occupation:** Editor-at-large for _The New York Spectator_ and _The Periodical Spectacle_, surgical resident at Massachusetts General Hospital

**Current Place of Residence:** Boston, Massachusetts

**Activities:** Golf, sailing, saxophone, writing

**Alleged Past Relationships:** Addison Freemont, Carole Astor-Gates, Caroline Caldwell, Madison Handler, Rebecca Hargrove-Handler, Sloan Grayson

**Holidays:** Adirondack Park, Cape Cod, East Hampton, Killington, Mount Desert Island, Palm Beach

**Charities:** American National Red Cross, amfCR, Nightingale Foundation, Operation Smile, Pelotonia, Polo Ralph Lauren Foundation, Task Force for Global Health, The Fortune Society, van der Bilt Foundation, WHO

_Last updated: October, 2043_

**Next profile**

* * *

><p><strong><em>van der Bilt country house | Old Westbury, NY<em>**

_It was the weekend of van der Bilt family reunion. Autumn was present for the small and informal lunch at their grandest Nassau County estate, a day before the societal cocktail reception, because her father was dating the newly single Stephanie van der Bilt. The McCraes were on their fifth divorce. Autumn, although a child, was mature enough to come to the resound conclusion that her dad was a nincompoop. It was only a matter of time before Ms van der Bilt became 'Mrs McCrae' again._

_Autumn Wetherell was a prim and proper nine year-old who tended to look down on the __unprivileged __masses. The van der Bilts were dissociated universes distant from being near that list. That didn't mean she had chosen to join in on what the kids, there, were doing. The ones closest to her age – the great-grandchildren of Mr van der Bilt Sr. – were only interested in playing outside in the biting frost._

_Coldness and wetness? _Eww!_ Dirtiness and earthiness? _Yucky!_ Running around on the dirt-carpeting grass and the snow they'd turn into slush from playing tag? _How childish!_ Autumn didn't understand the attraction of running around outdoors, chasing and body-checking for the 'fun' of it. So, instead, she had taken to solitude and walking inside of the colossal mansion._

_It wasn't long before Autumn had gotten lost. It was the largest house she had ever been in. It was, at the very least, three times the size of her grandparent's place in Westchester. She was intimidated, yes, but she wasn't startled. Her daddy had said that the van der Bilts were one of the bestest, most important families in New York City. And, therefore, the world. Because, duh. It was New York!_

_Autumn had wandered into the third library she'd come across so far. It was huge. It was hard to tell but it had to be three stories. There was a polished spiral staircase that led up to two indoor balconies, one higher than the other. She was about exit, spin on the tiny heels of the brand new white Dior pumps that she refused to ruin, until she'd noticed that the cavernous room was already occupied._

_Sophisticatedly sprawled across an emerald armchair was a tall boy. He was reading a scarily thick leather-bound tome. She could only see his profile. There was a substantial gap that separated them. However, Autumn could've said with absolute certainty that the boy was... well, the boy was beautiful. She had never thought of a boy as beautiful before. This boy was. Really, really. Full stop._

_He was the dashing prince that she had read about in fairytales. He was the reason that Disney had cut and pasted and candy coated the tales of the Brothers Grimm for their own purposes. His looks were that good. His posture was that impeccable. His manners had soon proved themself that consummate, as would his very pretty smile and its ability to weaken knees._

_The beautiful boy's finely styled head had lifted, not a single golden brown strand out of place. He slowly scanned his surroundings as if he knew he was being watched. His large eyes had landed on her._

Those eyes._ He had those Archibald eyes. He had to be a big brother of Andy's. Andy had those exact same orbs. Blinding, sky bright bulbs that were almost regretfully covered by the thickest boy-eyelashes ever; and seemed as if they could overcome an eclipse whilst deeply buried beneath the Earth's surface._

_Andy Archibald was in Autumn's grade and went to St. Jude's. There wasn't a girl in her class who didn't have a crush on him. They stuck their chests out and fixed their hair when he walked by. Many of them liked to stay after school on the days that he had practice – they'd contently watched him kick a soccer ball and run cross country in the fall; throw orange balls in baskets and outrace his competition indoors during winter; and play lacrosse and hit baseballs with bats and sprint on the white-lined tracks outside when it was spring._

_Autumn Wetherell had known Andy Archibald since kindergarten. To a certain extent. As much as anyone outside of his decidedly minuscule orbit was capable. He didn't talk to anybody else and it was annoying. The only people that she had ever seen him electively converse with were the teachers at school, his big sister and his big sister's big kid friends. Autumn had wondered if the beautiful boy she'd found in the library wouldn't speak to her as well._

_"Hello," he kindly grinned._

_Apparently, he didn't have the same silly issues that Andy had._

_She was able to see the boy better now. He had eyed her dead on. Gosh, he was cute, Autumn had cried inside. But he was old. Heaps older than Andy's sister. He had to be in upper-school, close to finishing. He wouldn't care about her. Autumn had found herself annoyed with another Archibald._

_She couldn't prevent her curiosity from mounting. It had eventually and embarrassingly spilled out of her mouth. "W-w-w-w-why aren't you outside?" Autumn managed to utter after a protracted pause. There were walloping butterflies that had flapped inside of her stomach which made getting her mouth to do what she wanted it to quite difficult._

_It wasn't the warmest or the sunniest of days. Yet, everybody had taken to either chatting out on the terrace where it was freezing or playing games on the snowy grounds that were piled up with breakable bricks of icy powder. Andy hadn't cared. He loved to run around. He loved to play everything, anything. He had a monopoly on the boy's teams. Autumn had assumed that the beautiful boy in the library would have been the same, if he actually was Andy's brother. Riley Archibald, a couple of years above her at Constance Billard, was. She was totally into the athletic scene, like him._

_The boy's voice was as velvet smooth as his thick hair had looked when he countered, "What about you, little lady? I could ask you that too, you do realise."_

_Autumn's infinitesimal fingers began to fiddle with the fur trim on the hood of her cherry Monnalisa coat. She had taken the thick merino-cashmere blend off sometime between stumbling across the first two libraries. Now simply left in pink Little J by Waldorf velvet, s__he held it in her tiny arms._

_She had started off stuttering, "I... I-I didn't want to play. Or, or, or feel like listening to grownups talk. Or watch the big kids attack each other just for a silly ball."_

_"Ah, yes." He had sagely nodded and set down his book. With both hands. He had to. That's how __humungous __it was._

_"Touch with the van der Bilts. More violent than rugby against the All Blacks, if you ask me. And, insurmountably more so when my Uncle Liam plays. He was the Bulldog's number one high school recruit this fall, you know."_

_"I'm sorry?"_

_"College football. Mm. Never mind." He was silent after that. The beautiful boy had seemed to lose himself in thought. "Christopher better not be playing again. He ended up in a cast after last time. He may be a total brain, but my nerd brother still has trouble accepting how hugely he sucks at any and _all_ kind of athletic activity. He's the only one of us who takes after Mom, in that respect. A true Gilmore." The fond grin he'd worn as he stared at the gilt walnut ceiling overhead had turned into an amused smirk. "He isn't used to failure, petit numéro de frère deux. Sports are a sore subject for him."_

_He had spoken in a perfect French accent. It was very attractive. His next grin was directed at her. Autumn had felt her cheeks grow warm. Very warm._

_"I'll, uh, I-I-I-I'll, I'll let you continue." She knew why her face was hot. This boy was too pretty to be allowed. She desperately needed to leave him behind. She was suddenly grateful that Andy had acted so antisocial. Autumn was glad that she had never made direct eye contact with him._

_"Wait..." The beautiful boy had gracefully leapt from the antique seat, like a jaguar in its element._

_He had lightly patted imaginary dust off the thighs of his neatly pressed bespoke dress pants. They were dark. They were unlike the khakis that were the unofficial, strictly followed standard for Upper East Side boys. Weekends included. They'd carried that tradition with them from nursery school, onwards. He had broken the unspoken rule. Andy had followed suit. He had worn plain, boring jeans. Autumn believed that his big brother's clothing of choice was incomparably better. It had added to his debonair charm._

_He had purposefully strolled towards her. The decreasing distance between them had shown that the woollen, shawl-collared sweater he'd sported was a rich byzantium. His movements were very fluid and very precise. Every aspect of him had seemed easy yet calculated to the very last variable. He was the most elegant male that Autumn had ever met._

_"I'll go with you," he insisted. "I better check up on my brothers. I'm sure Andrew's fine..."_

_So, the beautiful boy _was_ Andy's elder brother. She knew it. The truth was conspicuous. Despite that, Autumn liked to have complete assurance that she was correct._

_He continued as if he was reciting a tired, memorised list, "...He'll be with Riley and her friends, no doubt. But Christopher and, gracious, Richard... well, you can bet _Dick the Ridiculous_ has done something stupid by now. He's never not stupid. Guinness could've printed a spread on his penchant for stupidity before he learnt to walk. The Farrelly brothers would come out of retirement to film that moron."_

_Autumn disapprovingly shook. That sounded like Dick Archibald. There were few that hadn't known about his reputation for causing havoc. Upper East ears had heard about his expulsion, a few months back. The sophomores at Constance and St. Jude's had broken into school after-hours. They had partied. They had broken stuff. There were multiple hospitalisations by the end of the night._

_Dick Archibald was the sole accountable party for the scandalous mess__. Word was that his parents were so mad, they'd shipped him off to boarding school in Connecticut so they wouldn't have to deal with him anymore._

_"We'll take this route. It's quickest. I know them all__. I've explored every crevice of my great-grandfather's country home. I'm not a fan of those so called 'great outdoors' like the rest of my family is– well, except Mom."_

_He'd held out his hand for them to shake. He didn't let go after they had._

_"I'm Neil, by the way."_

_He had gently pulled her along, acting as a guide. Autumn had nearly dropped her red coat. This was unexpected. His hand was baby soft. Perhaps smoother than hers, and she was an exertion cautious pre-teen. Her mom was a skin doctor who had the works, and then some. When she had alternated to her father on Fifth Avenue, Dr Maxwell's carefully selected hoard from Saks was considerably lighter._

_So... the beautiful boy's name was Neil, she mused. Hang on a second..._

_She distractedly said, "Autumn. I'm Autumn."_

_She was taken aback upon the discovery of his identity. She had expected the hugest library's lone inhabitant to be the third Archibald son. What was his name, again? Tofu? Tofurkey...? _Oh!_ Topher, Autumn had realised. Neil was talking about a _Christopher_ before. She had thought that was a dumb nickname. About as dim-witted as her simple deductive skills, that wintry afternoon – she had blamed the frigid air for freezing her brain. She should have realised that the beautiful boy wasn't who she'd suspected he was then._

_He had several years on her__, but everyone had talked about Topher Archibald as numerously as they'd discussed the notorious Dick. There were enormous numbers that had raved about Topher Archibald at school. He had skipped a bunch of grades. Upper East Side mothers and fathers were always harping to their offspring about being more like him. He was freakishly smart and had an unhealthy attachment to the written word. He was quiet and well-behaved and grownups loved him._

* * *

><p><strong>ESPN NFL<strong>

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**Liam Gilmore-Danes**

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#8 QB | 6'3", 230 lbs | New England Patriots

**Born** Jun 3, 2018 in Stars Hollow, CT (Age: 25)

**Drafted** 2040: 1st Rnd, 1st by NE

**Experience** 3rd season

**College** Yale

**RAT | YDS | TD**

2043 Season

114.1 | 4,358 | 38

Career

113.8 | 12, 696 | 75

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[ Liam Gilmore-Danes | ˇ | ]

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STATUS •Probable

Gilmore-Danes completed 34-of-38 passes for 275 yards in Sunday's win over the Jets. (about 1 day ago)

Data Provided By [ ROTOWIRE ]

* * *

><p><strong>Liam's Ford pickup truck | Boston, MA<strong>

Adrenaline had kicked in. Topher was wide awake and not for a good reason. He had to keep his wits about him. "Why didn't we just take my car?" he childishly whined.

"Because it has two seats," Liam expressed his logic. "We wouldn't all fit."

"We should've tried to cram ourselves like the clowns and the Volkswagen, nonetheless. This thing is like riding the Goliath at Six Flags. Only more terrifying.

"If you ever expect to drive me again, Liam, you better get a new car." Topher looked serious. "This thing is falling apart. Marina, how can you stand to be driven around in this hunk of tin? It's a road hazard. It has to be violating the law, just by being operational."

"It has character."

"It has rust and no mileage."

"Too bad, Doogie," he brushed off.

The Neil Patrick Harris refrence wasn't restricted to those he had schooled and worked with. Topher had frustratedly folded his arms, the leanest and lankiest of the males in his family. They were covered by the sleeves of an emerald crewneck sweater. "Mhmm." A pronounced gaze of contempt had swept the poorly aging vehicle. His disapproval had oozed and stuck to their conversation like the viscid consistency of honey.

"Please stop hurting my car's feelings." Liam had tenderly rubbed the worn dashboard.

"I'll stop when this hunk of impossibly mobile metal stops trying to hurt _me_. This thing is the junction of Routes 41 and 46 in California, just waiting to happen."

Liam had kept his Lorelai blue eyes on the road. "You know, you're not the first person who's had a problem with it."

"I'm not surprise–" Topher had jumped in his seat at the sudden loud bang. It had sounded like a gunshot. "Gah! What the hell was that? A backfire?"

"Maybe..." Liam had nervously glanced at Marina. She had appeared worried too. But his girlfriend was used to the alarming explosions of sounds. His nephew was not. "I dunno, Topher. I love this car. I've had it forever. It's been with me through everything."

"Yeah, because it's the first car you ever bought," flatly stated Topher.

"I can't just replace it," he said from the heart. "Do you have any idea how many coffees I had to pour at Luke's to pay for this car? The amount of hours I've clocked answering phones and doing maintenance at Mom's inns? You know my parents. They didn't want me to turn into a trust fund brat, like you lot."

Topher's well-defined jaw – as similarly sharp and square as the bone structures on Franny, Mom, Neil and Riley – had dropped. "We are not brats."

"So, Neil and Dick were just live-in neighbours the rest of you just happen to share a coincidental number of eerily similar traits with?" Liam asked, half laughing.

"Okay, fine," he conceded. "_They're_ brats. Just those two," Topher felt the need to specify.

Liam shook his head. His facial features were incredibly similar, too. People often remarked how much he and his eldest nephew had resembled one another. A family friend of Rory's, Roy Humphrey, had asked them both if they'd planned on retiring and/or taking acting lessons. Apparently, either of them would've made the 'perfect Clark Kent'.

Liam retorted, "Sure, Mr I-Drive-A-1956-Jaguar-XK140."

"Hey, I deserve to have a nice car," Topher defended. "I'm a doctor. I'm a surgeon. I save lives."

"Your Grandfather van der Warbucks bought you that Jag when you were sixteen."

"And pre-med at Harvard!"

* * *

><p><span>AN: Physical bases are as follows: Topher – Drew Fuller in his _Charmed_ days; Hailey Lee – Chyler Leigh in _Grey's Anatomy_; Liam Gilmore-Danes – a mid _Smallville_-aged Tom Welling; Marina Litvinchuk – Maryna Linchuk (who else saw that adorable _Vogue_ editorial from May 2008?); Neil – Matt Bomer; Autumn Wetherell – Rachel Bilson.

I'm as subtle as a sledge hammer, aren't I? And imaginative, right...? Also, an uneducated tosser who has to resort to Google Translate. If there are opinions about the tallness of this tale, well, since when is reality relative in the worlds of the two GGs?


End file.
